Thoughts on My Life
by snufkin
Summary: Harry meets the malevolent spirit form of Voldemort at a young age. Harry hangs out with Voldemort and gets crucio'd on a regular basis. Not Slash. Skip the prologue.
1. Prologue: Perspective

Prologue: Perspective

I never wanted to be the savior of the wizarding world.

I never asked to have my name written down into history.

I never thought to have my baby pictures on the front-page of every wizarding paper.

Nevertheless, this all happened in less time than it took to bury my murdered parents.

My name is Harry Potter and I refuse to become the light side's poster-boy—not that I'm likely to now, especially after all I have done.

When I was a kid, the whole political and ethical issues of the Dark Lord and the Ministry didn't show up on my radar. Of course, I didn't know I was a wizard either. Mostly, I was more concerned about finding food and refuge from Vernon's bellowing, Petunia's glaring and Dudley's punishing fists.

I ran away at the age of six. After five miserable years of being slighted, underfed and beaten, I left. The story of my survival during my younger years remains painful to my mind.

I realize that I am not providing much details but this is because it's difficult for me to recall most of my life. Give me time to explain. You see, I lost my innocence early on. Survival of the fittest was the only thing I hung on to. It certainly wasn't a very healthy thing for a six-year-old to cling to. All I can say is that if I survived physically, my mind went completely haywire—which is one of the reason I have become one of the Dark Lord's key-enforcer.

Dumbledore didn't find me. According to the Dark Lord, I was subconsciously hiding my magical signature. I went undetected for years despite a whole department of the ministry devoted to the search of one Harry Potter. But I doubt that they looked really hard. Dumbledore's birds might have, but certainly not the ministry. The wizarding world didn't need me at the time, so they thought, 'stay dead Harry Potter, we don't need reminders of that Dark era.'

But forget that, my childhood years and the ministry's bumbling attempts at finding me are irrelevant. My life started the day I met the Dark Lord. I was eight at the time. He was a wandering malevolent spirit. I was a wandering unchild-like child. We struck a deal.

Now, from a different and older—also less rash—perspective, I would have to admit that my alliance with the Dark Lord certainly wasn't one of my better ideas. But I have never regretted our meeting. Having grown up unloved, ignorant and alone, I could not refuse the Dark Lord's promise of power.

I was suspicious by nature. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is free in this god-forsaken world. I knew that the Dark Lord promises were laced with double-entendre. But at the time, I had nothing better to cling to. So that is how I followed my parents' murderer.

The Dark Lord himself told me of his role in my parents' death. I rationalized that if he had had the power to cause so much grief in my life then I would be taught how and would return twice as much.

I blame the Dark Lord for starting the whole chain of unfortunate events that make up my life. But I blame the wizarding world for doing nothing and letting themselves be ruled. I also blame myself for enduring the Dursleys for so long. But most of all, I blame Dumbledore. He could have turned around my luck. He could have left me with wizards who would have treated me fairly. But he did none of that and left me with the Dursleys.

Had I stayed, I would surely have been dead. I was better off with the proverbial devil. It was a sad day when I realized that.

I did go to Hogwarts eventually, under a false name of course. I wasn't found out as Harry Potter until way after I had graduated. But that's a whole other story.

The Dark Lord and I had a strange relationship. He trained me, he taught me and he punished me, knowing that I would one day be his demise. Anyone would have thought that incredibly stupid. I didn't and I still don't. He had his own reasons as I had mine.

I didn't believe in family. The Dark Lord killed my parents, made my life hell by leaving the scar that rests on my forehead and then ensued that I turned dark. Today, I have abandoned all sorts of beliefs and cling to only one thing: there is only power and those strong enough to wield it. That is my most valuable lesson.

I have yet to kill the Dark Lord. Because I don't believe in prophecies. I don't believe in pre-destined fate. I believe in power and only in power. This is why the Dark Lord still lives while I survive.

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A/N: This is not remaining a one-shot. I like it too much lol. 


	2. Angry with the Dark Lord

Angry with the Dark Lord

I was eleven the first time I got angry with the Dark Lord. Our first intense argument was over school—his choice of school in fact.

"You enrolled me for Hogwarts?" I cried disbelievingly. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Control your emotions," snarled the Dark Lord. "I thought I had taught you better."

"I am NOT having a temper tantrum, if that is what you mean," I sneered. "I just don't see the point of wasting seven years in an institution directed by a old meddling codger."

I had never yet sneered at the Dark Lord, let alone yell back at him. He'd taught me all I knew—spells, manners, the means to achieve power—and he certainly deserved respect and groveling from me. Nevertheless, the tantrum, the yelling and the sneering, they were decidedly liberating experiences.

"And what could they ever teach me there?" I said indignantly. "You've certainly taught me more and better than any of the teachers there could ever wish!"

"You flatter me, apprentice," the Dark Lord said to me coldly. "But I will not go back on my decision. Go pack your bags or I will get a house-elf to do so. You will get on the Hogwarts Express even if I have to get a Death Eater to throw you on bound and gagged."

"As if they could keep me there," I muttered mutinously under my breath. "Let them try."

"And you will stay there," I heard him announce menacingly. "Or you will suffer my wrath. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, _my Lord_," I spat. "I understand perfectly."

I knew it irked him when I called him 'my Lord' and, irritated as I was with him, I stressed every letter of the two short words.

But for once, the Dark Lord did not lash out at me for using the title. He simply stood and looked me in the eyes. He waited expectantly. We fought a battle of wills. I gave in first—I was eleven for god's sake. Older and more experienced wizards had faced the Dark Lord and lost.

"Please, just tell why I must go?" I said softly, eyes glued to my expansive dragonskin boots. "It—it would make the separation easier."

And to this day, I still believe that at that precise moment, the Dark Lord softened and the heart he did not have began to beat again. He understood that it was not Hogwarts I was reluctant to go to. He knew instead that I was pained because I did not want to leave him, the man who had raised me and who had given me knowledge and who had shaped me.

I was going to miss him, believe it or not. And when I look back, I think that he must have missed me too during those long years I spent at Hogwarts.

"You need to be around other children you age," he said. "It will be good for your education as well as your introduction into wizarding society."

"You want me to practice my social skills?" I asked tentatively. I was a bit bewildered.

"There are things I cannot teach you," the Dark Lord said simply. "Lessons that can only be learned amongst the masses."

I stared at him.

"Hogwarts will be a good environment for you to practice more subtle skills than dueling," the Dark Lord added. "It taught me well, for one."

It occurred to me that seven years at Hogwarts would test my capabilities in deceit, cruelty, dominance as well as secrecy. Hogwarts was to be my trial.

"I understand, Lord Uncle," I said, impassively this time, easily reverting to the familiar nickname. "I will not disappoint you."

"Good, see to it that you don't forget your weapons," the Dark Lord concluded. "And find Lucius and send him to me. I have to discuss with him the identity you will be assuming on Dumbledore's turf."

I understood myself dismissed and nodded before heading towards the door.

Just before the door clicked closed, I heard him say: "Harry, I will devise a secure way of communication between us. Your _other_ lessons must not be neglected."

I smiled despite myself. I was sure that he would relish having me attending to him right under Dumbledore's nose.

And that was the first time—but not the last—I got angry with the Dark Lord. We would fight more often later in our lives, but he would just hit me with the Cruciatus to shut me up.

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**A/N: **Read and review please. I appreciate comments. 


	3. Harry's Moving Castle

Harry's Moving Castle

I was and still am an avid read—just in case you didn't know. I had read some muggle books—I'm counting on your discretion here—and it occurred to me that a moving fortress could be advantageous to myself.

When I drew up the plans for it, I was still under the Dark Lord's bizarre educational system, but I had to decide on my future and all. Couldn't stay a student all my life, you know? And I was relatively fed up with the Dark Lord's overuse of the Cruciatus Curse on me.

You'd think I would've gotten use to the pain, but no, no one really gets use to pain.

So yes, I wanted to have my own pad. Staying in Muggle London was out of the question because what would most likely happen was that the Dark Lord would just blast a spot clean of filth and then visit me.

I'm sure you know what I mean by filth. It's degrading but hey, you use the words you use. People can be offended all they want, I don't care.

Anyways, living in wizarding communities was also a big no-no, mostly because by then, I was a hunted man. The Ministry wanted me in Azkaban, Dumbledore wanted me under his thumb and the wizards themselves were split in two parties. One sided with the Ministry and wanted me, well, dead. And the other half wanted to reach me on a daily basis so they could get powders, potions and the special charms I was so adept at.

"Oh, Mr. Harry, could you make us some potion that will bring good luck for our sailboat?"

"Mr. Harry, dear, I'd really appreciate some of your Cornabilly Corn. You have such a touch with them and it soothes my stomach admirably better than those registered spells."

"MISTER HARRY! Could you please, please give me something so I could win a duel?"

And those were only some of the things wizards would come to me for. Acting like muggles, the bunch of them.

The Dark Lord wasn't pleased of course, his apprentice exchanging medicinal magic with riff-raff like that. But he let me do it anyway because he was old (even if didn't want to admit it) and he was busy conquering the wizarding world.

He still crucio'd me a couple of times because he thought that this whole herbs and funny lyric spells were beneath a wizard of my talent.

But truly, making up spells was something I liked and I was good at it too, which is another reason why I think the Dark Lord didn't bother too, too much about my "old woman's" medicinal practice, as he called it.

I really wanted to strike it up on my own. Be independent, find myself and all. I had one truth in life: knowledge is power. I wanted to fill in the holes and the emptiness around that mantra.

So once I drew up the structure of my moving castle, I set up to build it. It wasn't an easy feat I tell you, especially since I used the inferi to do the muscle jobs. I still think some parts of the castle smell like rotten flesh. Anyhow, it was either the inferi or the Death Eaters and they, being a bunch of useless pureblood bluebloods, wouldn't know what do to with a nail and a hammer.

I could've constructed my castle using magic, but magic tends to be a bit wacky and make big structures bizarre. I mean, look at the Weasley house! Still, I used a charm to make the house move but if the charm was blocked or toyed with, my castle would've just stop moving. It wouldn't have crumpled.

It was my fortress. My treehouse. My hiding place.

I loved my moving castle like I had never loved anything before. (And I had truly never loved anything.)

I left the Dark Lord's manor the minute I finished constructing it. The Dark Lord's farewell consisted of a round of crucio.

"Do not forget whom you must pay allegiance to, you ungrateful apprentice!" he yelled at me. "BRAT! At least visit me on weekends!" Personally, I think he was proud I had made my own pad.

The obvious advantage of my unplottable castle was that it was moving. My location became unpredictable and so I didn't have to fight off the Ministry and Dumbledore so often.

Wherever I went, I dispensed herbs, potions, spells or fear, depending which one was called for. Yes, the Dark Lord still sometimes called on me for special jobs that mostly involved scaring villagers with a huge dark castle that roamed around in the mist of the morning.

Personally, I think it was pathetic. But I had some fun.

I lived alone with a house-elf for many years. I visited the Dark Lord every second weekend. He would spend the time either sipping his tea coldly while reminding me of my various responsibilities or asking me how my wreck of a house was doing.

He was like that. Few people knew him as the man behind the mask. He wasn't only a Dark Lord. Of course, I still don't think it had been a very great idea to ally myself with him (considering all the crucio's I suffered) but he was, you know, someone to talk to on occasions.

We had some similar hobbies—like scaring people and manipulating them.

Anyhow, the years I spent living in my moving castle were some of the best of my life.

My only regret is that the castle developed a mind of its own and ran off to Denmark. I'll have to search for it, one of these days.

**A/N:** Just got my wisdom teeth removed, feeling a bit disoriented but enjoying myself nonetheless.


	4. Young, Rich and Rude

Young, Rich and Rude

During my seven years in Hogwarts, I met—and toyed with—many students from prominent pureblood families. I got to know some muggleborn filth too—but that's something else altogether.

Truly, my major annoyance was in the form of one Draco Malfoy plus his Slytherin posse. You see, few were informed of my true identity, so I could poke fun at them to my heart's desire.

I don't know about you, but Draco Malfoy and his cronies reminded me of this muggle jet-set crowd who simply didn't give a fuck. Excuse the language but it is the most accurate description of them. The bunch of them would do anything to get a rise out of someone—even if the someone was a fellow Slytherin.

I think that many Slytherins were truly bored and lowered themselves to petty rivalries and childish antics only because they had nothing better to do. So they set up all these stupid rules between them in a attempt to add flavor to their own bland posh life—as if having parents killing muggles and fighting the Ministry wasn't enough excitement for them.

The Slytherins didn't bother with you unless you had wizard designer clothes. You were listed as filth or blood-traitor unless you had the proper family background. And, you had to have the right exciting personality and all. You had to be, like, "it."

Seriously, between us, is there really such thing as good inbreeding? I remember looking at them and feeling amazed that not more of them died in infancy from bizarre genetic diseases—don't ask me how I know about genes and all, or the Dark Lord will blast me through a wall.

Anyhow, the first young, rich and rude pureblood I met was Pug-nose Parkinson—the nickname stuck, to my everlasting pleasure.

She approached me on the train with the rest of the soon-to-be Slytherin first-years.

"Hello there, my name is Pansy and I am a Parkinson," she said to me, her pug-like nose stuck as high in the air as she could possibly manage. "Who are you? I really hope they don't let in riff-raff in Hogwarts this year."

I don't think she liked my boots—they were slightly muddy from kicking inferi rot but she didn't have to know that.

"Thank you for introducing yourself, _pug-nose_," I said as politely as I could. The submissive polite effect I was trying to achieve was destroyed by the last word but hey, can't have everything eh? "But I don't think I'll reveal my name to you just yet."

Some of the soon-to-be Slytherins snickered behind her back. Pug-nose's eyes narrowed and she leaned back and looked me up from my toes to the top of my unruly hair. She must have dismissed me as riff-raff since she immediately unleashed her anger.

"How dare you make fun of me when you're dressed like filth," she sneered. "I'm sure you're just one of those nasty mudbloods. Eek, stay away."

She gave me that look that was supposed to say: "You don't belong."

Catty and batty, I tell you, she was. I raised an eyebrow. It certainly wasn't my fault she could not recognize good expansive wizarding robes and overpriced dragonskin boots. Dusty, they were but Dolohov had just dumped me onto this stupid train, arms flying and legs sticking out. It wasn't my fault I hadn't landed properly. (The Dark Lord didn't trust me and was still sure I was going to run off at the last minute.)

Pug-nose, turned to the boy behind her who had his blond hair sleeked back with enough gel to stick him to a ceiling. "Aren't you going to defend my honor, Draco," she whined. "The mudblood just called me, you know."

The blond called Draco just looked at Pug-nose as if she had asked him to kiss her—in disgust mainly. Despite the fact that Draco Malfoy is an annoying prat, I have always admired the way he can scrunch up his face into that arrogant trademark Malfoy sneer. Even _I_ have never been able to imitate it.

"What's to defend Pug-nose?" the eleven-years-old Draco said, using the name I'd called her. "It's not like the line on your mother's side is that pure anyway. Muggleborn in the third generation, no?"

Pug-nose paled and then turned red. She slapped Draco and spat: "Your father will hear from my father, you hear, Draco!"

She turned to me. "Disgusting trash, better throw yourself off the train before we get to Hogwarts or you'll be sorry."

"Lovely," I said. "Nice to meet you."

Pug-nose fumed and ran out of the compartment. My thought at the time was that young, rich purebloods were cruel to others, but were even nastier between them. Not a very nice thing, indeed.

The blond faced me and drawled, "You will excuse her behavior. She has never been in higher company before."

So he knew who I was. Lucius must have told him. He introduced himself and others from the so-called proper pureblooded families.

Crabbe and Goyle were simply disgusting. They kept snorting and debating about how high you'd have to push a booger up your nose until it reached your brain. They would later turn out to be bulky hulks, always bragging about the sex they didn't have. As if anyone with a sound mind would ever touch them.

The image makes me want to hurl.

Nott, I knew from before. He was a bookworm in a sense. He was sort of sneaky-looking. We had been playmates of a sort when I was younger. Nott senior had brought his son and I found junior—I buried him under a mound of rotten inferi. I don't think he ever forgot. Later on, despite his bookworm tendencies, he'd say the crudest comments and would make the nastiest jokes. I never liked him—should've left him underneath the inferi. For the moment though, I tolerated his existence. We nodded to each other.

Zabini was one of those purebloods that didn't say much in front of the company but who excelled in cruelty and despair behind closed doors. He was very much like me, in a sense. We would get along famously at Hogwarts.

And Draco, Draco Malfoy himself, the soon-to-be Prince of Slytherin. He was the epitome of good pureblood breeding. Even at eleven, he stood proud, his back erected and the trademark arrogant sneer plastered on his face. He was—and still is—the master of annoyance, bullying and arrogance. I daresay he stayed at the mental age of eleven for the rest of his life. He actually liked the petty rivalries. Spoiled, childish and astoundingly arrogant, that was Draco Malfoy at his best.

But I loved annoying him and so we stayed friends—again, of a sort. He was also the only one who knew of the direct contact I had with the Dark Lord. Nott thought I was some relative of some Death Eater.

"So, we're all hoping to be in Slytherin," said Draco. "Where do you think you'll be?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

Draco was undeterred. "I heard from my father that you played around with inferi," Draco said. "Aren't they like disgusting?"

I shrugged again. I had told the Dark Lord that sending me to Hogwarts was a bad idea. Two minutes into the ride and already, a minion's son—albeit an important minion—was asking me dumb questions.

"They don't smell like roses and waterlilies, if that's what you mean," I said finally.

Draco snorted. "You're not what I expected you to be like," he said. "You're so short and scrawny."

I smiled benevolently. Just like his father, junior would attack someone's physical appearance and then proceed to tortuous methods of extracting information just to see how far he or she could be pushed.

"What did you expect?" I said, leaning back in my seat. Nott and Zabini were sitting beside me and Draco and his two gorillas were facing me.

"Show us some of your magic," Draco demanded. "I heard you already could."

I raised an eyebrow at that. "No," I replied.

"Why not?" sneered Draco, standing up. "You're supposed to be good, aren't you?"

Malfoy junior was trying to get me either upset or annoyed with him. He had guts.

I didn't bother to answer him. His voice grated on my nerves.

"Shut it, Malfoy," I heard Zabini say. "Your screeching is starting to resemble Pug-nose's."

Draco sneered but nevertheless sat down. "You've got a problem with my voice, Zabini?" said Draco nastily. "It can't be worse that your mother's when she's getting screwed by one of her multiple husbands."

Zabini just looked at Draco coldly. I stared out the window; I didn't feel like involving myself in their stupid little internal fights.

"Funny, I heard you squealed like a pig, last time your father punished you," Zabini whispered. "I don't know how a stinging hex directed at you little weinee could've hurt so much, since you obviously don't have one."

They sneered at each other. I was right about them being even nastier to each other than to mudbloods. They also knew more dirt about each other.

But they were eleven for god's sake and making lured jokes about mother's getting screwed and each other's sexual prowess.

They really needed to get a life. Couldn't they, like, read a book or play with butterflies or something else harmless?

You lose your innocence early one in the world of high-end purebloods. You need to, in order to survive.

And those were the Slytherins I first met on the train. I'd meet students from the other houses too and mingle with them a lot more, but the first impression of Hogwarts stuck with me.

They were young, rich and rude. And that was all.

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**A/N**: Thank you for reading! I'm already working on the next chapter: 'When Snape Retaliates.' 


	5. When Snape Retaliates

When Snape Retaliates 

One lesson I failed to forget over the years is the first time I tried to hex Severus Snape. I was ten.

Previously, I had only practiced spells on inanimate objects. And so I was itching to try it on something _moving._ (I'm sure you know where this is heading.)

"FINGURUS," I yelled with my wand pointed at the poor house-elf whose name I've forgotten. The house-elf's fingers became wobbly and vegetable-like.

The house-elf shook in fear. I always felt slightly guilty when practicing on them.

"ROASTBEEFTEK!" The house-elf was bombarded with flying slices of roast beef. I never really liked that jinx. I could've sent things that were a lot more lethal than meat!

I scratched my nose, trying to think of a spell that wouldn't hurt the house-elf but would still induce a harmful effect.

"REDUCTO," I blasted the ground under the house-elf's feet. The house-elf went flying into the wall.

I liked the effect. People can't protect the ground under their feet.

I walked to the quivering house-elf and quickly healed him. I gave him a pat on the head, told him he did a great job and sent him back to the kitchens.

House-elves were useful for practicing wand-waving and seeing the actual result of a spell, but they were useless for dueling. They were also pitiful in the sense they would let the master practice whatever curse on them and never fight back. I have always felt bad about it but on who else was I supposed to practice?

Pieces of wood don't really work well.

After one of those pathetic excuse for a practice, I decided to go see the Dark Lord and complain about my lack of opponent to him. He would probably crucio me and order me to figure out my problems on my own, but it was worth asking.

On the way to his private rooms, I bumped into a Death Eater.

"Watch where you're going," the bat-like man sneered. "The Dark Lord cannot protect you everywhere you go."

I had bumped into him intentionally. I was curious of his identity. It wasn't a voice I recognized.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said politely. "I will watch my step, next time."

The man didn't reply and continued walking, his black robes billowing behind him.

I couldn't help myself. He presented too good a target and I had been frustrated lately with no dueling partner. I sniggered to myself and muttered a furnunculus curse at him. I hit him straight on. I don't think he thought that I had a wand.

Tentacles grew out of his face and out of his feet. He tripped and fell flat on his face. He pulled himself up and with a roar of rage he turned around, his greasy locks swinging amongst the brown tentacles. He looked straight at me.

I froze, my wand held tightly in my right hand.

"So this is what dueling is supposed to feel like," I thought. "The fear, the excitement, the sweating; this is real!"

The bat-man shot a curse back at me. He didn't say a word.

"He casts non-verbally," I thought, easily jumping out of the way. "It'll be harder."

"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BRAT!" the bat-man bellowed.

My eyes widened. What a powerful set of lungs he had!

I shot another curse at him but he blocked it. Nervous, I took a step back.

He advanced towards me. He pointed his wand at me.

"PROTEGO," I scrambled to say. The spell he threw at me was rebounded but I was thrown back.

I landed in a heap and watched as the bat-man advanced menacingly towards me.

"Expelliarmus," he said this time. I tried to use 'protego' again but my wand was already flying towards his hand.

I tried to will my wand back. My wand landed obediently in the bat-man's outstretched hand. Obviously, I was less talented in wandless magic than I thought.

"Oh drat, you won, sir." I said. "Can I have my wand back, sir?"

The man stood in front of me. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and hauled me in the air. I squirmed.

"You remind of a certain black-haired idiot," sneered the bat-man. "Sneaking behind people's back and hexing them like a coward."

I bit my lip. "You're talking about the Dark Lord? That's not very nice."

"I was talking about SIRIUS BLACK, you brat," the bat-man corrected. "And you, you, will wish I had never laid eyes on you."

I admit I was scared.

I won't go into details about all the nasty spells the bat-man used on me. But just know that I spent the rest of the week in the shape of a cockroach, scrambling around the Manor.

When I informed the Dark Lord of where I had been for the last-week or so, he simply laughed at me and told me not to bother a certain 'Snape' again. And then he crucio'd me for missing a week of lessons and for getting caught casting spells at better wizards than myself.

So yes, that was my first encounter with Snape but certainly not my last. He would hate me bitterly later on, even more than when he found out I was the hated James Potter's son.

Still, those were the good old days. I learned the lesson well that time. I never got caught again, you see. And Snape hated me the more for it.

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A/N: Please, please review. It gives me the strength to continue. 


	6. Land of Confusion

Land of Confusion

It's funny how many wizards couldn't decide between taking side with either the Ministry or the Dark Lord. The former was incompetent and the latter, too competent.

As the war was waging on between the different parties, I was wandering around the country in my moving castle. One conversation I had with a young kid didn't really mark me at the time but when I look back at it in my pensieve, our little chat disturbed me just a little.

The boy had come on an errand for his single mother who could not spare the time to come see me in person. The potion she wanted needed to sit for a good hour before being bottled so I gave him some sweets and we waited on my front porch, enjoying the cool breeze of the afternoon.

I was slouching on the stairs. The brown-haired boy with the striking black eyes—one of the reasons I remembered him—was sitting cross-legged on the grass and fiddling with a long-stemmed pink tulip.

"Hey, don't pull too hard on the stem, you'll break it," I warned him. Nature, I discovered in my later years, was precious—especially the sort I had to coax into growing. "You know, it took me almost three years to get my tulips that size?"

The kid grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harry, I wasn't trying to crush it," the boy said. "I was just wondering what the flower was thinking."

"Think you're some kind of plant mind-reader, don't you, kid?" I chuckled him. "That could be potentially useful."

"Oh it is," the boy said. "The plants tell me things."

"Really?" I humored him while silently chuckling at the depth of children's imagination. "What do they say to you? Gossip? News?"

"Plants will tell me if the ground's been poisoned," the boy said. "Or they just tell me if a fruit is ripe."

He looked at me, completely serious and said: "Sometimes, the grass shivers when it senses bad people approaching."

"I see, and do the trees send ripples in their leaves just before a big storm?" I said, joining his story.

"Oh no, Mr. Harry, the trees aren't strong enough for that!" exclaimed the boy. "They say that the ground is so sick that they cannot bear fruit or grow leaves anymore."

I was being lulled away by the cool breeze.

"Mmm, and why's that?" I asked, almost sleepily. "Is the ground too dry?"

The boy raised his head and looked straight into my eyes, his brilliant ebony eyes meeting my half-closed green ones. "The trees, they—" he looked around him. "The trees say that the ground is soaked in blood!"

"Just one tree?"

"All of them, Mr. Harry," the boy said, his eyes wide. "They say that their roots are drowning in terrible terrible crimson liquid."

I almost laughed at this. Imagine, trees complaining about the bloodshed occurring between the different parties of the war.

The boy brushed against the tulip once again. The tulip turned a black color.

"You see, Mr. Harry, flowers don't like what's happening either," he said.

I was too startled by the black tulip to pay attention to what the boy was saying. I got up and kneeled in front of the black flower.

"Amazing! Did you just do that, kid?" I asked. It was truly amazing. Even spells couldn't have colored the tulip that way.

"No," the boy said. "That's nature acting."

I didn't hear a word he said, busy as I was trying to harvest the unique tulip. I was already trying to think of the new avenues I could explore with the black tulip's properties. Magically enhanced flowers were difficult to come by as most didn't survive the transformation in order to be used in potions.

I glanced once more at the tulip and headed inside. I bottled the boy's potion and handed it to him.

"How much, Mr. Harry?" the boy asked.

"Free of charge," I said waving my hand at him, my mind completely taken over by the black tulip. "I've never seen anything like this!"

The boy just smiled and left a galleon on the stairs.

"Do something about the war, ok, Mr. Harry?" he said as he headed towards the road that led to the village.

"Mm?" I continued to poke at the flower, completely absorbed in the discovery of a new plant. "Wait, I want to ask you how you changed the tulip."

But the boy was already gone.

When I went into the village the next day and asked about the boy with the brilliant black eyes, I was told there was no such boy. I then asked about a single mother and her boy and was told that the youngest boy was around was sixteen.

Astounded, I just trotted back to my moving castle. The boy might not have lived in the village.

To this day, I still believe that the boy was an apparition, a physical manifestation of what we know as Death. He was warning me. Me, who had the power and the influence to do something in the war.

I still have the black tulip. I couldn't cut it up, neither could I harvest it. It lies there, never fading, waiting for its master to claim it once again. And when the master comes, I'll know it'll also be my time to go too.

But for now, I try to do what I can to stop this bloody war in this not quite god-forsaken world.

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A/N: REVIEW PLEASE! Thank you, thank you…


	7. Wandering Malevolant Spirits

Author's Note: Thank you to the very kind and thoughtful readers who have been reviewing. I appreciate the encouragement. So here's some more of Harry and Voldie.

**Wandering Malevolent Spirits**

I'm going to be honest here. That night I wandered into that forest deep in the dark areas of Albania, I was drenched in sweat and scared—yes, bloody scared—of the wandering spirit-ghost that was said to be haunting the place and killing the animals that ventured into its territory.

I jumped at every little sound. I was only aware of the sounds of the leaves crackling under my shoes, of the eerie silence of the woods and the startling cold air.

I was so afraid to be caught unaware that I stumbled right into the spirit-ghost. Very dumb thing to do. It felt like I was being attacked from all sides.

And then, less than a second later, I watched in surprise as the spirit-ghost was ejected from me, screeching horrible sounds.

I dropped to my knees, panting.

The spirit-ghost circled around me, its eyes boring into me. I shivered.

But I refused to be a coward. I stood up and looked straight into its gray shapeless orbs.

"Hello, Mister Ghost," I said stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

The spirit said nothing and continued circling me. I tried not to fidget.

"How is it that I cannot possess you?" a rasped voice said. "I cannot seem to even be able to harm you?"

It was my mother's blood protection, but I didn't know it at the time. I shrugged at the spirit.

"You have blood protection," the misty face contorted into a semblance of a frown. It seemed to be thinking hard. "Tell me your name."

"Harry Potter, Mister Ghost," I said. "What's your name?"

The spirit seemed to become agitated at the sound of my name.

"Harry Potter?" he said in his bizarre broken voice. "Who sent you? Tell the truth!"

"No one sent me," I said, lifting my shoulders. "The snakes told me to come here."

"The snakes?" he inquired. "What are you here for then?"

"The snakes told me I would find Death here," I said, not knowing that I would really meet Death later on in my life. "Are you it?"

"I am a bringer of Death although I am not Death itself," the spirit hissed.

I looked at him.

"You going to kill me?" I hissed back. "I'm no stranger to pain."

"No. You can be useful to me," the spirit tilted his misty head sideways. "Do you have a home to go to?"

"I'm an orphan, Mister Ghost," I stated simply. "I ran away."

"Do you know who I am?" he asked me.

"The bringer of Death, Mister Ghost," I replied.

The spirit floated forward until he was standing right in front of me.

"I am Lord Voldemort," he said to me in a grave tone. "I am the one who made you an orphan."

"You were in the same car accident as my parents?" I asked skeptically.

The spirit laughed at this and proceeded to tell me about a certain Halloween night. He told me about dirty muggles. He explained wizarding society. He woke me up to magic.

He told me who I was. He told me who he was.

And I didn't hate him—not really. He was teaching me things about the world. I could only be grateful to him.

Sure, he murdered my parents. But life isn't fair. You do what you have to do to survive. Worse things have happened to me. But I wanted to learn from him, to find out the reasoning that lead him to what he became.

He asked me: "Will you follow me?" and I said: "ok."

I wanted the knowledge of how to destroy Lord Voldemort. Life shouldn't be fair to him either. And so I became his student.

"You may call me Mister Ghost for now," he said, his misty back to me. "Until I get my body back."

"No need to advertise you presence to Dumbledore, right?" I replied. He had given me enough information for me to grasp this quickly.

"Exactly, Harry," the spirit said. "You will have to learn quickly, for I am not a patient master."

I nodded and I am inclined to think that he has eyes in the back of his head because he appeared to have caught my nod.

Bizzare spirit.

And thus, I followed him deep into the forest of Albania. I wasn't to see civilization for another two years.

I'm happy I didn't turn out to be like some Moglie or Tarzan. In fact, I turned out to be a pretty regular kid coming out of Albania considering I'd been under the tutelage of the nastiest cruelest Dark Lord that Europe had had for the last two centuries or so.

Funny, the way life turns out, sometimes.

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Author's Note: Here are some possibilities of future chapter titles: Harry's Rampaging Wand, Crucio'd at Breakfast, The Dark Lord is Balding. The wheels are turning in this brain of mine. Hohohohoho.


	8. The Dark Lord is Balding

Thoughts on My Life:

The Dark Lord is Balding 

In all the moving pictures I've seen of the Dark Lord, he remains surprisingly still, as if he had already moved onto a different platform of life, leaving others behind. I say platform of life, but it could easily have been a visual reflection of his ascendancy to almost-immortality. The Dark Lord has always been an eerie man, and an eccentric one in his ways of living if not in his methods of torture—one can seriously get bored with the Cruciatus.

So I was looking at one of his Hogwarts picture and looked sideways to compare it to the present Dark Lord. The red eyes were definitely a new addition. And the Dark Lord had certainly lost his luscious and soft mop of dark chocolate hair. All that were left were tufts of brown and gray sprinkled here and there at the temples of his head. He even attempted to hide his increasingly bald spot by brushing long strands of gray over his skull. It was pathetic and I told him so and got crucio'd, as you probably expected.

"Keep this in mind, Harry, my abundant hair is silver!" the Dark Lord said in a particularly petulant way. "Silver is a very noble color and is reminiscent of my age and wisdom."

Not having learned my lesson, I snorted. "Calling your five strands of hair silver is just trying to convince yourself you still have enough hair to even have a conversation about it. Talk about denial, sir!"

"And no offence meant, of course…" I added.

I think he did take offence because I got cursed again.

"I really think you should consider the advantage of a wig, sir." I said, rubbing my chest to soothe the pain of the recent curse. This time I ducked when a curse came flying my way. Rolling on the floor, I managed to get myself near the door. I scrambled to my feet and said: "Think about it sir, you could look ten years younger and a lot less scarier!"

"What's wrong with looking scary? I'm supposed to impose fear into people," I heard him mumbling as I dashed into the corridor.

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The next day, I went to the Dark Lord's study, needing his superior knowledge of languages to translate a scroll on hexes I had discovered rolled and hidden in a corner of the library. I knocked and without waiting for an answer, walked in. You can imagine my surprise when I saw the fearsome Dark Lord with blood-colored irises trying on a set of dark brown hair similar to that of his youth.

I was so shocked he'd actually taken my advice that I just stood there and gapped, the scroll forgotten in my hand. I lie, I was more shocked by the fact that the Dark Lord could be so vain as to pat the top his head where the wig sat and to turn his body to see in which angle his hair looked best.

The image is actually pretty nauseating, now that I think about it. I shudder still at the memory. But I shudder more at the massive and unforgettable thrashing I got for walking in on the Dark Lord uninvited and catching him in the act of admiring himself. I don't think I've had that many curses and hexes thrown at me since. Not even when I was fighting twenty aurors single-handedly.

I think I stayed comatose for a month after that. That was before the Dark Lord had deigned that I had suffered enough for my intrusion on his privacy and healed me. I think I would've stayed in bed another couple of months had he not forgiven me.

The Dark Lord thus decided that wigs weren't too much his thing and opted to shave his head completely. I wonder who got the job of relieving the Dark Lord of his five strands of hair.

He keeps his head shaved nowadays because it does inspire more fear than tufts of brown grayish hair would. This has had people believe that he is actually bald. The fact that he has no eyebrows does not help. But the last time I passed in Diagon Alley, they were advertising this hair-invigorating potion. I might get it for the Dark Lord as a present next time he conquers a country or something.

It remains my everlasting belief however, that the Dark Lord is not actually bald, as opposed to what a lot of his followers think; he's just balding.

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Author's Note: It's not particularly funny or original but I've always wanted to write how Voldemort got bald. The chapter is a bit shorter than I expected. Anyhow, thanks for reading!


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